15. Matteo
Matteo
We’re five minutes from Tessa’s place, city lights and rain streaking the Mercedes windows, when she jerks upright clutching her stomach and hisses, “Oh fuck, pull over. I’m gonna be sick.”
I barely have time to signal the driver before she’s pawing at the door. She’s halfway out before I can get it open, making this desperate animal noise in her throat, and then she just loses it—violently, spectacularly, all over the curb in front of a gelato place.
I slide out after her, hand catching her hair in a fist before it can dip into the mess. The other arm goes around her rib cage, steadying her as she heaves. It’s not graceful, it’s not even human.
When she finally stops, she hacks a weak laugh that devolves into coughing, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. I pull a handkerchief from my jacket and wipe her lips, thumb scraping the corner of her mouth, then tip her chin up so she has to look at me.
She’s mortified, any bratty bravado from dinner rinsed out of her by the contents of her stomach. “Don’t say anything,” she rasps, voice shredded. “Not one fucking word.”
She tries to stand, but her knees go soft and I have to catch her, hauling her into my chest. At least she has the decency to clutch my lapels instead of flailing around like a dying goldfish. I could get used to this, her small and shaky in my hands.
She’s burning up. Not fever-hot, more like her body’s overworked and smoking itself from the inside out.
Her skin is clammy, her pulse hammering at her throat, and she’s trembling in my arms. I manhandle her back into the car, ignoring her weak protest and the fact that her knees don’t even try to lock.
The scent of sick clings to her, and she sags into the seat, cheek pressed to the cool glass, eyes squeezed shut.
Could be the steak and wine, but the easier answer is the one I’ve been planning for: she’s pregnant.
“We’re not going to her place,” I inform the driver. “Drive to the house.”
Tessa jerks upright. “No, I want to go home. I just want my bed.”
“Not happening, stellina.” I hold her tighter, voice low. “You’re sick, and my place has better security.”
“I don’t want—” she starts, but her voice cracks, and I can tell she’s about three seconds from a breakdown.
I drag her into my lap. I rub her back, slow circles until she melts. “Enough, Contessa. You need rest, fluids, and someone to take care of you. If you think I’d let anyone else take care of my woman, you’re fucking delusional.”
She glares up at me, eyes shining with unshed tears and leftover humiliation. “I need my stuff. My comfy clothes—my bed, my books—”
I roll my eyes. “You want a toothbrush, I’ll buy you a toothbrush. You want your purple dildo, I’ll have someone fetch it. You want your entire apartment airlifted to my house, I’ll fucking do it. But you are not spending tonight alone.”
She makes a weak attempt to wriggle away, then gives up. Exhaustion is visible in her face and body.
She gets quieter and smaller, head tucked under my chin, her hair tickling my jaw. A minute later she’s deadweight, breathing slow and deep against my chest. Good. I don’t let her go, even when my thigh goes numb. I just hold her, careful not to jostle her unsettled stomach.
She doesn’t wake up when we get to the house. Not when I lift her out of the car. Not when I carry her up the stairs, bridal style, past the front hall and up into my suite. A year ago I would have called it crazy, but now it just feels right—her body slack in my arms, her scent all over me.
I lay her down on top of the duvet and she doesn’t wake.
Just sprawls and lets out a little groan, rolling until her cheek is pressed to the pillow.
I stare at her, hair stuck to her forehead, dress bunched up, panties still missing from our little restaurant game.
I could peel her out of that dress and fuck her right now, but she’s ill, and she needs to sleep, not get railed into the mattress.
I strip off my jacket and toss it over the chair, then shuck my shirt and unbuckle my belt. Tessa doesn’t notice a thing.
Heading to my custom walk-in closet, I go to the left side that I had cleared out and set up with anything and everything she might need or want when she’s here.
Reaching one set of built-in drawers, I pull out a light gray pair of sleep shorts and a matching tank top, then step back into my bedroom.
She’s barely moved. I could put her in anything, or nothing, and she wouldn’t know the difference until morning. I kneel on the mattress next to her and push the hair off her face.
I peel her out of the dress, slow so I don’t wake her, and slip the tank top over her head. She stirs, groggy, lets me manhandle her arms through the holes without even a token protest. I slide the shorts up her smooth thighs, and she hums like it’s a spa treatment.
She’s about to collapse again when I nudge her shoulder. “No sleeping yet, Contessa. Up.”
She groans, voice raspy with sleep and stomach acid. “I feel like I got hit by a fucking semi.”
I haul her upright, one hand at her nape, the other guiding her by the elbow. “You’ll feel worse if you don’t brush your teeth. Don’t make me do it for you.”
She makes a whining noise, but her body obeys, stumbling on autopilot toward the en suite bathroom.
I flick on the light, squinting against the glare, and steer her to the sink.
She tries to sit on the damn counter. I boost her up and stabilize her with a palm at her hip.
She’s heavy-lidded, shivering a little, skin still clammy.
She’s not going to puke again, but I keep her hair in a loose fist just in case.
I squeeze toothpaste onto her brush and hand it to her.
She glares at me, then shoves it in her mouth.
While she brushes, I open a drawer and start lining up her skincare shit on the counter.
I don’t know what half of it does, but I bought every bottle, serum, and mask I saw in her bathroom.
I set out the face wash, the toner, the moisturizer, the weird glass bottle with the gold cap.
She stops mid-brush and stares at the line of products, then at me.
“You’re fucking psycho,” she mumbles around the foam.
“Yeah, but your skin’s going to look amazing,” I say. “C’mon, wash your face.”
She half-asses the job, splashing water everywhere, but she does it. I towel her off, then dab moisturizer onto her cheeks and nose because her hands are shaking and she keeps missing.
She looks up at me, blinking, and for a second her eyes are soft. “You don’t have to do this,” she says, barely audible.
I stroke her hair off her forehead, thumb drawing a circle on her temple. “Yeah, I do.”
She makes a guttural snort and drops her head against my chest. “This is good enough for tonight. Unless you wanna see me put on a face mask and puke in your sink.”
I grunt, but the thought of her in a sheet mask, eyes rolled back, makes my cock twitch. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen in the bathroom.”
She rolls her eyes, but it’s all for show. She’s already leaning into my hands, a soft animal wanting care even if she hates needing it. “Can I go lay down before I pass out or embarrass myself further?”
“Not on your own,” I tell her, scooping her up under the knees and carrying her back through the suite. I pull back the covers and set her down, then strip off the rest of my clothes and climb in after, curling my body around hers.
She’s so fucking small in my arms, even with her curves. I tuck her against my chest, hand splayed wide on her stomach.
I press my mouth to her hairline, kissing her slow. “Goodnight, Contessa. Try not to vomit on my pillow.”
She hums, already half gone. “No promises.”
She’s out in under a minute, soft little snores and all.
I lie there, arm heavy over her middle, listening to the clock and her breath, and the storm outside.
My hand spreads over her belly, thumb tracing the waistband of her shorts.
I’m not a sentimental man, but there’s something sacred about this—her bare skin under my palm, the hush of her sleep, the way her body curves into mine like it never belonged anywhere else.
I want to wake her up. I want to slide my hand lower, make her beg and cry and take it all, sick or not.
But I keep my hand where it is, just feeling the heat of her through the cotton, thinking about what’s inside.
If she’s not pregnant yet, it’s a fucking miracle.
I never pulled out, not once. If there’s any justice in the world, my cum’s already done its job.
I want to see it—her with a belly, her tits swollen, her body soft and ruined by me. I want her bratty as ever, bitching about her back and her cravings, while I buy her everything she points at and eat her out until she screams. I want her so full of me she can’t think straight.
But I want her here for good. Not just a bed warmer, not just a plaything. I want her in my house, my name on her tongue, my child in her. I want her to have nowhere else to run when the hormones hit and her body betrays her. I want her to need me. Depend on me. Fucking addicted to me.
I hold her all night, counting the heartbeats and the tiny twitches. Around four in the morning she wakes up enough to roll over, presses her face into my chest, and mutters something that sounds like “asshole” before drifting off again.
An hour later, I finally get up and leave her a delicious little pile in the middle of my bed before making my way downstairs. I have things to do and plans to make.
Once I focus, nothing and no one can stop me. They can’t tell me no. All cave to me, it’s one of my best fucking assets.